


Bastard and Ward

by CASmastree



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Kink, Mild Smut, POV Alternating, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Season/Series 01, Unhealthy Relationships, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CASmastree/pseuds/CASmastree
Summary: King Robert and entourage arrive in Winterfell, to celebrate the new Hand of the King and their childrens' bethroval.To Sansa's Coming of Age feast are invited Winterfell's vassals.Lord Bolton brings his bastard son.Meanwhile Eddard Stark's ward is just trying to live his life.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSnow fell like a thick blanket over them, melting on his furs and in his hair, starkly contrasting the black strands.Even on horseback and huddled in thick riding cloaks, the cold was biting today.The horses were huffing out warm air, clouds of perisperation building around them.His black steed Blood was warm as any herd fire, yet his fingers and face felt frozen.His father and wife sat securely in the carriage.He hadn't been able to stand it in there for long, with Walda's warm smiles.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy & Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy & Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark
Kudos: 7





	Bastard and Ward

Ramsay had never been to Winterfell, obviously.

For most of his life he'd just been one of many, children born of out wedlock, oblivious to his heritage. 

No wealth or influence, no lands or money to his name, said name very fitting for the land he'd been born in. Always _snowy and cold, even in summer._

__

Then one day everything had changed.

__

Descendant of the Red Kings of the first men, who would've dreamed? (He had. Ever since people started commenting on his eyes and him killing squirrels and kittens for his amusement.)

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Domeric had called him to live at the Dreadfort. The fool's fault he'd been naïve enough to trust the brother he had found. He brought it upon himself.

__

He was the only son left to Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort and Bannerman to Lord Eddard Stark and he would inherit all that.  
His _birthright_.

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Today he traveled by father's side as only living son and heir. But his claim was fragile. The only way to secure his position was a legitimization from the King and the King was an old drunkard. And even then, any child the Frey woman gave birth to would immediately undo his claim. She certainly looked like she was already pregnant. It might be hard to tell until it was too late.

__

He would do whatever it took to stop that from happening. _No one_ would take his hard earned place. He'd been disabled from birth on by his name, given this disadvantage he had to fight every single day but would never be rid of. At least not in father's eyes.  
An old saying went: _Bastard born and Bastard bred, dying in a bastard's bed._ People used to like reciting if to him, until they had learned to fear him.

__

Snow fell like a thick blanket over them, melting on his furs and in his hair, starkly contrasting the black strands. The horses were huffing out warm air, clouds of perisperation building around them. His black steed Blood was warm as a herd fire, yet his fingers and face felt frozen.

__

They entered over the drawbridge. Even on horseback and huddled in thick riding cloaks, the cold was biting today. His father and wife sat securely in the carriage. He hadn't been able to stand it in there for long, with Walda's warm smiles.

__

The castle looked nothing like he'd imagined and certainly not as impressive as the few songstrells that made it this far north depicted it. The great seat of noble House Stark. It was certainly a large castle but one tower rotted away and the gray stone walls didn't do much to impress. The old gods didn't keep watch here. He knew that to be spun from poetic daydreaming.

__

The Starks too were dissapointing.True, his father never spoke highly of his liege lord, but they were direct descendants of the first men and the Kings of Winter. He'd expected great might and splendor to accompany their heritage but he found it barren of pomp of any kind. Didn't look like the hall of great kings anymore.

__

But truth be told, no northern house honored their ancestry like the Boltons. _His_ house had kept their signature tradition going strong for hundreds of years and everyone knew what happened when you got on a Bolton's bad side. They were feared. They were respected.  
And respect was hard to come by these days without fear.

__

All of them stood in the yard now, their hosts lined up to duly greet their guests, increasingly dull in their greys and blues and whites. The here Lord himself, looking like he hadn't seen a summer in his life. He wondered if he looked like that when laying with his wife, the Tully woman. Then there stood their oldest son, a redhead, next to him his female version, two little boys and a little girl.

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He spotted another boy around his age, maybe older, wearing fine clothes but a surly expression. Had to be Stark's Bastard, standing next to the smallest at the end of their row, but not quite, like he didn't belong. He deemed him unworthy of attention.

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Next to the Bastard stood some nondescript blonde boy and multiple other castle inhabitants.

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At least the Starks did have a reasonable amount of children to pass inheritance onto - and to marry off. Nothing like Lord Frey's famous _madhouse_ of relatives.  
A man married a Frey daughter, he was lucky she came with a dowry at all.

__

Speaking of, the redhead was the right age and not hard on the eyes. She was why they were here after all. Partly. They had been told there was already a match chosen but it should be her decision, so in case someone else caught her eye, the Lords should bring their sons.

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The King had arrived weeks before the northern Lords. With Ramsay and his father had come the Karstarks and they were the last, not having particularly hurried when the call from their liege lord came, an invitation to join the celebrations.

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Father had taken to the news calmly. He obviously had some more important plan in the works and Ramsay had an inkling of what that could be. Otherwise he wouldn't have missed out a chance to set Ramsay up with her. Such a marriage bought power. He'd merely been told to try, just in case. He hoped to be privy to it soon.

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Father greeted them, with his usual, ever so slightly judging expression. He held Blood's reigns and bowed to the Ladies of the court, kissing Lady Stark's hand and smiling at Sansa, who looked away.

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He felt a persistant pair of eyes on him then. Most barely spared him a glance.

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He directed it back to the blonde boy's sneering face. Who instantly looked away, cowed by Ramsay's answering glare. Curious.

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Lord Stark led them inside, he'd given his horse to some bumbling stable boy. He'd have to check on Blood later to make sure he was treated well. The servants brought their belongings to their chambers.

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In the great hall of Winterfell all the Lords and Ladys were seated, servants buzzing about to make sure everyone was treated befitting of their status. They were served capaun in wine sauce and other outlandish specialities, of course mostly to honour the southern guests. Not really his choice but it tasted passable. The sweet berry sauce quickly became a new favorite.

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Ramsay was just finished eating when the King brought out a toast to the coming of age of his Hand's flustered daughter, the pretty redhead, and then declared that the drinking could start. He didn't take any wine. Beer did it's job just fine.

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Someone a table over started laughing obnoxiously, barking really. He spotted the culprit, the blonde boy from earlier, on a bench next to the Lordling and the Snow boy opposite them. The very same who'd been staring down his nose with disgust earlier, yet the only one brave enough to look him in the eye. They were already drunk, he noticed with disdain.

__

To be honest, most people were already drunk. He was glad this time noone brought up the courage to talk to him or even touch him. Otherwise he'd have to break an arm or two and wouldn't mind making a scene in the process. Last time it hadn't ended well for the offending party.

__

Ramsay's glance again gravitated towards the boy. He _knew_ who that was. A richly-clothed noble brat from some important house down south. The name escaped him.  
When he swung his legs over the bench, Ramsay saw he was wearing plate with a kraken on it. That must be Stark's ward then, the _Greyjoy_. He'd heard about his 'reputation'. This savage played high and mighty for all to see when everyone knew he wasn't- it was an open secret that Lord Greyjoy didn't care about his only son and successor. The ward would be dead sooner or later, by a thoughtless snap of his father's fingers. He was to be beheaded, in the likely event of another rebellion. Gossip traveled fast, even in the North.

__

He'd been named after some Stark King. The irony was probably lost on him.

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It was so boring here. Times like these he dearly missed his hunts. He'd have to find some other form of entertainment...  
Well, in any case, he was bored.

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He aimed his glassy stare at Greyjoy's head. There was a golden shimmer in his hair, reflecting the candlelight and he was occupied with that for a short while. Must have been all the heavy drinking going on around him, most notably from his bench neighbour, who had been pouring ale into himself for the past hour straight.

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He noticed the stench of it then, weaving through the thick air in the hall. Disgusted, Ramsay scrunched up his nose and avoided breathing in too deeply.

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A short while later, some servant girl walked by. She giggled when the ward grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down onto the wooden bench. So what they said wasn't just a rumor, him being "popular with the ladies".  
Had he ever been dropped like an old rag Probably not. He'd like to see his face. Certainly more entertaining than trying to butter up anyone, which father undoubtedly expected.

__

The evening ended with another toast to King, Hand and his oldest daughter and son and yadayadayada... Who cared. At this point the King was as red as the wine he spilled over himself. His Lannister wife looked like she wanted to drown him in the red liquid, understandably. Drunk people were disgusting. Just like his neighbour.

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Speaking of.

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"IF you belch ONE MORE TIME, you will wish you hadn't." He held his dagger to the culprit's stomach, making his message clear.

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The man nodded frantically and scooted as far away as possible, throwing looks at him now and then to check if he'd put that knife away for good.

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A good while later, they were allowed to leave the festivities. He might've soon started a brawl, despite his father's warning. Anything to occupy his mind.

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He luckily avoided all drunkards on the way to his room, which... lay directly opposite Father's.

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This way Roose could monitor him personally. Superb.

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Once inside, he made quick work of his doublet and tunic and threw them over a chair. He settled down, out of habit took out the satchel with his precious knifes and began to sharpen and clean them. One of the best activities to unwind, besides using them of course.

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XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

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He'd thought nothing of the Bolton's bastard, except perhaps that it was an audacity to bring him to such an important occasion, namely the coming of age feast of his Liege's daughter. It made the bastard seem a suitable party!

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In Robb's place he would have been offended at the insult towards his sister, but the man was a saint as always and didn't comment on it at all.

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The thing making him most uneasy though, the bastard didn't look down respectfully once he'd been introduced, but stared right back at him. And that noone could seem to look that creepy bastard in the eye for long. He should be glad to be here at all and yet he showed no sign of humility. At least he remained silent, letting Bolton do the talking, except when he'd kissed Lady Stark's hand with "It is an honour, my Lady."

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His smarmy voice had Theon's attention immediately. Lady Stark looked just as enstranged as he felt but she'd hidden it well, greeting in return. When the bastard came out of his bow, eyes locked with his own. The fire in them nothing like what Theon had come to expect from a Bastard. But then, they were a vicious breed of people.

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He didn't look humbled in the slightest, regarding him only with coldblooded superiority and it made him feel queasy. He subconsciously hid behind Robb, scooting closer to Jon in the process, who scooted away, with an incredulous expression. The creepy guy had seen his discomfort and grinned at him but no one else seemed to notice.

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When they went inside, Theon trailed a little ways behind Robb and their guests, because he could still feel the bastard's pale eyes on him and it made his skin crawl.

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He tried to focus on more important things.  
Like wenching. At tonight's feast he would finally get his hands on that pretty readhead. He had been eyeing her for days and she didn't seem too reluctant.

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And just like that, he'd forgotten all about that creepy bastard.

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**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to call me out on anything that seems amiss.  
> I appreciate feedback ; )


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